


Windows

by Ralkana



Series: Windows 'verse [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: #coulsonlives, Backstory, Developing Relationship, First Time, Fix-It, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 21:40:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/pseuds/Ralkana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From their first meeting, Clint's eyes tell Phil what he needs to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Windows

**Author's Note:**

> **SPOILERS FOR THE MOVIE.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Inspired by [this picture](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/ralkana/1118319/399/399_original.jpg) of Jeremy Renner's ridiculously beautiful eyes. Seriously, what color is that?
> 
> Big thanks to [Maquis Leader](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Maquis_Leader/pseuds/Maquis_Leader) for all her help. Any mistakes are mine, definitely not hers.
> 
> Disclaimer ~ Marvel's toys, not mine.

 

Phil straightens his tie before he knocks on the door of Barton's quarters. It's an impersonal door in a hallway of nothing but impersonal doors.

It swings open, and Phil blinks, fingers tightening around the file in his hands.

No one has bothered to tell him that SHIELD's walking disciplinary problem is gorgeous. The customary ID photo in the file he holds has done the man no justice.

He is young, late-twenties, and he is barefoot, wearing only black cargo pants and a black muscle shirt which does everything to highlight his impressively athletic physique. His hair is short and messily spiked and a strange color between blonde and orange, and his eyes are a steely, battleship gray.

"Yeah?" he asks, his face impassive. "You the new handler?"

His voice is hollow, his posture defensive, and Phil sees instantly that Fury was correct -- as though that is ever in question.

This man has been through four handlers in just over a year and a half, and his file is bristling with complaints and disciplinary write-ups and psych reports, but very short on recommended solutions. He has a reputation for being unruly, insubordinate, difficult to handle and just plain trouble.

Phil can see that his spirit is low and his patience is wearing thin. He is only here out of a pretty ambiguous sense of loyalty, and soon, he will be in the wind. SHIELD cannot afford to have an asset of his skill-set and with his knowledge in the wind and disillusioned.

"Get him under control, Coulson," Fury had ordered, and the _or else_ was understood.

It wouldn't be the first time SHIELD's burned an asset with such remarkable potential, but it's never an acceptable solution, and Phil intends to make sure that it never happens to this man.

He offers his hand. "Phil Coulson. You can call me Agent, or sir, or Coulson."

Barton hesitates, eyeing him for a moment before he takes Phil's hand in a firm grip. "Clint Barton. You can call me Fuckup. Everyone else does."

It's said with a smirk, a sardonic little twist of Barton's lips, and Phil suppresses his frown.

"I think we'll stick with Specialist, or Barton," he answers easily. "May I come in?"

Barton shrugs and steps back before ushering Phil in and closing the door behind him.

His quarters are absolutely bare -- not a single personal item is on view, and Barton has been with SHIELD for over two years. Phil files that fact away.

Barton offers him the desk chair, but Phil prefers to stand and tells him so, and Barton shrugs again and drops down to sit on the edge of the bed.

"That was some pretty impressive work you did today, Specialist," he tells Barton, because it was.

Barton is staring at him like he's waiting for the punchline. His work today is what's gotten him assigned to a yet another new handler and given him the latest disciplinary report in a long line of them.

He's been written up for disobeying several direct orders in the course of a mission deemed to have had a moderately successful outcome.

What the disciplinary report failed to say, and what Phil has heard from Sitwell, who was there, and Nick, who saw the sat footage, is that Barton left the nest chosen by his handler -- a spot which was later deemed to have been compromised -- to find his own location, made a seemingly impossible shot to take his target down when the target was fleeing after their cover was blown by the idiotic incompetency of several of the other agents involved, and disobeyed his extraction order to aid two civilians who'd accidentally wandered into the clusterfuck.

And when he'd finally reached the extraction point, covered in blood that wasn't his own, he'd been greeted by an apoplectic handler screaming about having his head, rather than a "Great job, Barton. Well done."

Barton is still staring at him. "Thanks," he says eventually, utter disbelief clear in his voice.

"I just wanted to stop by and introduce myself, since we'll be working closely together. I'd like to meet you on the range tomorrow at 0900 so I can familiarize myself with your style and your skill-set, and I've arranged a meeting with the quartermaster and R&D tomorrow afternoon so that we can discuss what is necessary to procure you a proper bow and ammunition for it."

Barton sits bolt upright. "Y-you're... a bow? You're letting me have a bow? I mean, I have my practice bow, but... a real bow?"

His voice is full of almost childlike enthusiasm and disbelief. Phil knows better than to point it out, so he simply raises an eyebrow.

"That is your preferred weapon of choice, is it not?" he asks -- unnecessarily, because he knows that it is, and he knows that the practice bow and arrows that Barton has somehow acquired are children's toys in this man's hands.

Barton lets out a little laugh. "Well, yeah, but..."

One hand comes up to scrub at his hair, and he stares up at Phil, a ridiculously young expression on his face, and his confusion is understandable. He has asked repeatedly for the use of a bow, and been flatly denied every time, a position Phil finds completely unacceptable, and frankly, moronic.

Phil is amazed to see that from this angle and in this light, the eyes he'd thought were gray are actually green, or perhaps, blue. They are remarkable, and Phil is mortified as he realizes he is staring back at Barton.

He blinks and forcibly turns his attention back to the matter at hand.

"I see no reason not to utilize all aspects of your unique skill-set, Specialist. Provided, of course, that your use of a bow proves effective."

Barton's face loses its innocent disbelief and hardens into a look of vicious pride. "Believe me, sir. You won't regret this decision."

"No, I don't believe I will," Phil tells him. "As long as you understand that the bow won't be your only weapon -- "

"I know how to use the best tool for the job, sir," Barton interrupts him, and yeah, they're going to have to work on that, but it wasn't an order he interrupted, so Phil lets it stand.

"I'm glad to hear it. Good night, then, Specialist. I'll see you at 0900."

Barton stands suddenly. "Sir... Agent Coulson... thank you. You won't... just... thank you."

Phil finds himself staring again. The man is ridiculously attractive, and there is earnest gratitude all over his face, and Phil bites the inside of his cheek and forces himself to look into his eyes instead of staring at his shoulders and his pecs and his arms. It's not that much better of an option, because Barton's eyes are truly incredible, a mix of colors too vivid to name.

"I look forward to seeing what you can do," he says, and okay, that probably wasn't the best thing to say, because now Barton is raising an eyebrow and smirking at him.

But it means that Barton's look of disillusioned defeat is gone, and maybe that's worth a little embarrassment. With a final nod, he tears his eyes away from the man and makes his way back to his own quarters, wondering the whole way what he's gotten himself into.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

Phil pushes into the interrogation room. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Barton looks up from the metal table he is cuffed to. Both ankles are shackled to the chair he sits in, and Phil barely bites back his growl of frustration. He glares at the guard, who immediately steps forward to undo the restraints. Phil has risen high enough in SHIELD now that his orders are followed without question. Except, apparently, by the infuriating pain in the ass that is Clint Barton.

Barton stares at him, eyes gray and resigned in a way Phil hasn't seen since their first meeting two and a half years ago. He doesn't even reach to rub the circulation back into the reddened skin where the cuffs have bitten into his wrists.

"She wanted to come in," is all he says.

"She did, did she? That's funny, Specialist, because I heard every word the two of you exchanged, and she did not ask for asylum, in English, Russian, or any other language. So tell me, how exactly do you know that she wanted to come in?"

"She didn't hurt me, and she could have. She didn't kill me, and she could have."

"And now, thanks to your hard work, she's deep inside SHIELD, where she can cause a ridiculous amount of damage and possibly kill us all."

"She won't -- "

"Why not?"

"She just _won't_ , Coulson. She... she doesn't want to do this anymore. I know she doesn't."

There is no defiance in him, no smirky arrogance. There is only firm, miserable resolution, and it is that which starts to convince Phil that Barton really does believe in what he's done, as insane as it seems to be.

"Is she... will they..." Barton hesitates, uncharacteristically, and scrubs a hand over his face.

"She's sedated and restrained," Phil says roughly, and Barton flinches. "They're keeping her under until we get some people in to take a look at her."

"Will they -- "

"I don't know. It's above my clearance level now."

Barton looks startled at that, because there is very little these days that is above Coulson's clearance level. He sighs and lowers his gaze once more.

"I need you to do me a favor," Barton says, and Phil thinks that what he himself is doing might actually be called goggling.

"You are in no position to be asking for favors, Barton -- "

"I know. I know... but... please, Coulson... if they decide -- if the director decides I'm right, if he decides to make her an asset, don't... don't let the other handlers have her, the ones who had me."

His voice is a low murmur, gray eyes focused on the table before him.

"Barton -- "

"She'll need a calm voice in her ear. Someone strong, someone who never panics, someone who won't let her down. Someone who trusts her. It's the only way she'll survive."

His voice trails off into nothing, and Phil stares at his bowed head, unable to think of a single word to say.

Two things are very clear. Barton's trust in Phil goes far deeper than Phil ever suspected, and the archer thinks his career at SHIELD is done and he believes Black Widow is worth throwing away everything he's worked for.

No matter how certain Phil's been up until now that this situation can't end well, he is not about to let Barton go this damn easily. He is not about to be yet another person in Clint's life that has betrayed and abandoned and forgotten him. It won't be the first time he's gone toe to toe with Nick, after all.

"Just what do you think is going to happen here, Barton?" he asks easily. "You think, what, I'm trading Hawkeye for Widow? You're sorely mistaken if you think I'm going to just let you drop this mess in my lap and wander off. She's yours, Specialist. You want her, you're going to train her."

Barton is staring at him, blue-green eyes swimming with disbelief. He shakes his head. "Coulson -- "

"You made a questionable call, Barton, and we have yet to see the consequences of it, but if you feel strongly about what you've done, you need to stand by your decision -- "

"I do -- "

"I know. You'll be the one to explain your actions to the director. I'm sure he'll be here soon."

Barton's eyes are wide. "I... Coulson..."

Phil circles the table to stand next to him, and his intent is obvious. He's standing beside his asset, no matter what.

Barton glances up at him. "Thank you, sir. You won't regret this."

"I haven't yet, Barton," he answers, and they settle silently to wait.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

Phil sighs and rubs the back of his neck, groaning as he glances at the clock in the corner of his screen. He's worked past 0100 again, and his back is not subtle about letting him know it.

He tidies his desk and shrugs into his suit jacket. On a whim, before he shuts his computer down, he taps into the security feed for the practice range, and sighs.

Clint is there in the otherwise dark range, letting fly arrow after arrow, a look of absolute concentration on his face.

Phil shuts off his computer and goes to collect his wayward asset.

He walks and thinks of the way their working relationship has evolved into a deep friendship over the nearly six years they have known each other. Adding in Natasha seems to have been the element that has solidified the three of them into an unstoppable, unbeatable team.

They are regularly sent into SHIELD's hottest, most dangerous situations, and when it is the three of them, they do the job, and they always come home -- sometimes battered or bloodied, but always together. When they are separated, as they are now with Natasha on a solo mission, Phil works until long into the night, and Clint spends every free moment on the range.

The dynamics of their little team would probably baffle SHIELD's psychologists, and Phil imagines that's why they are left alone. Nick knows what works, and he's not going to mess with effectiveness.

Phil respects Natasha, and he knows she respects him, cares for him as much as she is able. Clint and Natasha are fascinating to watch, having tumbled from wary allies to lovers to friends to family, and Clint calls her _Tasha_ or _Nat_ or _Tash_ , nicknames that might cost another man a hand. Not Phil, he is sure, but he has never attempted it -- Natasha is the name she has chosen, and he will honor that wish.

Another man might be jealous of their closeness, but Phil knows that they have both had so little love in their lives, and they deserve their close bond. What he and Clint have is a true and abiding friendship, the camaraderie of men who have survived battles together, carried each other out of the trenches.

Phil won't deny that he wants more, that he always has -- the attraction that blindsided him on their first meeting has only grown into a deep respect and admiration for a man who started with so little and has worked tirelessly to make a life for himself, to make himself into a man worthy of dignity and self-respect. Phil does not have his heart, but he has Clint's friendship and his trust, things he does not bestow lightly on others, and Phil must be content with that.

No, not content -- Phil doesn't lie to himself. But satisfied. He must be satisfied with what he has. Being greedy could destroy the careful bonds they have all created, and what they have, how it works -- that is bigger than one man's futile wishes.

And if sometimes, Phil imagines he sees something like heat in those remarkable eyes, he tells himself that he is only seeing what he wants to see.

This is the same pattern his thoughts take every night as he walks to the range, as he works to convince himself that being alone on the range with Clint in the middle of the night is not dangerous, because nothing is going to happen to jeopardize what they have. He will not allow himself to act rashly.

With that final admonition in mind, he pushes the door open and enters the range.

"It's late, Barton," he says quietly.

"Learned my work ethic from my handler," Clint shoots back, eyes still downrange, and Phil's lips twitch, because it's not true -- Clint worked his ass off even before he met Phil, it's just that no one appreciated it, or him.

"She hasn't missed a check-in. She's fine."

Clint finally lowers his bow, glances at Phil, and then to the ground. "I know," he admits softly. "I heard Sitwell's report. That's not why I'm here tonight."

"Listening in the vents again, Barton?"

"Practice, sir."

Phil just eyeballs him, and Clint shrugs unashamedly.

"Why are you here tonight?" Phil asks after a moment, remembering Clint's odd response.

Clint sighs and carries his bow to the equipment table. He sets it down with a solid thunk, and the handful of arrows from his quiver follow with a muted clatter. He turns around and steps back to Phil, closer than usual, and Phil blinks at him.

"I knew you'd come find me," he admits quietly, gazing down, and Phil finds himself studying the man's eyelashes, the color and length of each individual lash. He swallows and represses the urge to step back, step away before Clint unknowingly tests his resolve more than usual.

"You could have just called," he says, his voice rough, and he resists the need to clear his throat.

"I didn't want to do this here, at SHIELD, but..." Clint trails off, gives a bitter little laugh. "But we're always at SHIELD, and when we're not, we're on a mission, which is even worse."

He looks up then, up at the camera in the corner of the range, and before Phil can even begin to process what he's said, Clint steps forward again, pushing into Phil's personal space. He steps back automatically, and Clint does it again, and again, easily maneuvering Phil into the corner of the range, pulling the door partially open as they move past it, the angle of the corner and the open door effectively masking them from the camera's view.

Phil's back hits the wall, and Clint stops and steps back, just enough so that he's no longer crowding Phil.

Phil's breathing is shaky, and his heart is racing. He stares at Clint, his confusion nothing but white noise in his mind.

"I'm sorry if I startled you, but I really don't want any observers or any record of this conversation, and there's nowhere else -- I wanted neutral territory," Clint says, and Phil thinks the archer's voice might be unsteady, but _Phil_ is so unsteady that it's hard to tell, and he thinks, _Not true! Not neutral!_ because the range is Clint's territory, always Clint's territory.

Clint steps forward again, half a step this time, and his gaze finds Phil, and Phil can't _breathe_ because Clint is so close he can see the slight scattering of freckles on his nose and cheeks, he can see all the colors of Clint's eyes, the blue and the green and the gray and the gold and they are _beautiful_ , he is beautiful, and Phil clenches his fists to keep from reaching, to keep from touching.

"I have pretty good eyes," Clint says, jerking a little huff of a laugh out of Phil, because that is so much of an understatement it is practically a lie. Clint's eyes are incredible, in every way, and Clint has to know that.

The corner of Clint's lip curls up in the tiniest smirk, a hint of self-deprecation, and he gives a little shrug.

"Good eyes," he amends, "But I think sometimes... I think they might show me what I want to see, instead of what's really there."

It is so close to what Phil tells himself every night that he can do nothing but blink in shock.

"But then, sometimes I see... and I don't... God, Phil, what we have is so good, and I -- I don't want to fuck this up, but I just... I can't wonder anymore."

Phil hazily wonders if he has fallen asleep at his desk. It wouldn't be the first time, and while he's never dreamed this particular scenario before, he's learned that his imagination has no limits when it comes to this man.

Clint's eyes narrow, a tiny frown between his brows, and he breathes out a sigh, shifting as he prepares to step back, and Phil's hands shoot out, grab his forearms, gripping the firm muscles, rough against Clint's shooting gear.

"Don't," he snaps hoarsely.

Relief floods into Clint's eyes, a beautiful swirl of green, of blue, and his lips curve into a shy, relaxed smile Phil has never seen before.

"I-I'm... Clint, I'm your handler," he stutters, desperately trying to inject some logic into the insanity of this situation.

Clint's smile shifts into the cocky grin Phil knows, Phil _loves_. "Worried you're abusing your authority, sir?" he asks archly, and when Phil gives him a gesture that is half nod, half head shake, Clint laughs, and Phil shivers at the sound, at the feel of shifting muscles beneath his fingers. 

"It's a good thing I've got a well-documented lack of respect for authority then, isn't it?" Clint says, his voice a low growl, and Phil swallows, his tongue slipping out to wet his suddenly dry lips, and he watches, frozen, as those magnificent eyes shift to follow the movement, the beautiful colors slowly disappearing as Clint's pupils expand, his eyes going dark with hunger.

Clint's arms shift in Phil's grip as he brings his hands to Phil's shoulders and pushes back, shoving Phil into the wall again, and he swallows Phil's groan as he presses close, closer, the heat of his body a solid line against Phil, and Phil's hands are sliding against shifting, straining muscles, one curling to anchor itself in Clint's hair, and his mouth opens under Clint's, taking in the other man's shaky gasp, and Phil is lost.

Clint's chest is hot against his, shoulders crushing him into the wall, hips grinding ruthlessly against Phil's, and Phil moans into the kiss as Clint licks sleekly into his mouth, his tongue tangling with Phil's, and Phil surges into him, one hand gripping the taut muscles of Clint's ass to pull him in closer.

Clint tears away from his mouth with a growl, and Phil gasps, breathless, as Clint's mouth moves wetly down his jaw, down his neck and Phil cries out, his hand fisting in Clint's hair as Clint nips sharply at the skin just above his shirt collar.

"Oh, God," he groans. "Clint... Jesus, Clint... not here!"

Clint jerks back, his eyes wide, pupils completely blown, and he nods, panting harshly. He grabs his bow off the table with one hand, forgotten arrows clattering to the floor as he pushes Phil out the door.

They walk through the deserted corridors quickly, and though they do not intentionally touch, Clint is crowding him, his shoulder and hip bumping Phil's with every step. Clint is staring straight ahead, the same look of absolute focus on his face that he wears on the range, and Phil shivers as he realizes Clint is concentrating on getting where they're going without jumping Phil in the corridor.

Phil's quarters are closer, and they both instinctively turn in that direction when they come to a branch in the corridor. When Phil opens the door, Clint steps in before him, setting his bow on Phil's desk as Phil shuts the door behind them.

Phil chokes out a startled sound as he is slammed into the door again, Clint's mouth on his once more. Clint's tongue slides along Phil's, tasting him, mapping his mouth, and Phil's fingers clutch at Clint's bare shoulders. Out of breath, he jerks back, head thumping against the door as Clint's teeth find his earlobe, nipping roughly, and Phil jumps.

Clint pushes back, quickly stripping himself of his shooting gear and tossing the pieces on Phil's desk as Phil shrugs out of his suit jacket and turns to hang it up. Clint steps up behind him, grinding his hips against Phil, his hard cock sliding along the cleft of Phil's ass. Phil arches back against him, head on Clint's shoulder as Clint slides one hand toward Phil's tie to tug at it, the other exploring the heat of Phil's cock through his trousers, and the suit jacket falls unheeded from Phil's hands.

Clint gives another tug at Phil's tie, and Phil lets out a little choking laugh, raising his hands to cover Clint's.

"Slow down," he breathes, only to gasp when Clint's teeth close on the nape of his neck, just under his hairline. "Fast... fast is good too," he decides, and his fingers fumble as he unknots his tie, and he draws it free and drops it on top of his suit jacket.

There is a flurry of movement as they both quickly strip, tossing clothes away and kicking shoes and boots aside, and then Clint is standing before him, a gorgeous expanse of skin and toned muscle in nothing but his boxers, his cock a hard line against the material, and Phil licks his lips and slides to his knees, and Clint's body jerks in response to the movement.

"Fuck, Phil... I..." He trails off in a groan, one hand resting in Phil's hair and the other scrabbling uselessly for purchase on the wall as Phil mouths his hard flesh through the soft material of his boxers.

Phil slides one hand up to grip Clint's ass, groaning around Clint's cock at the feel of the tight muscle flexing under his hand, and Clint hisses, hips bucking at the vibration.

Hooking his fingers in the waistband of Clint's boxers, Phil pushes the material down, hands on Clint's thighs clutching tighter as Clint's muscles shift and flex as he kicks them off, and then Clint's back hits the wall and he gasps as Phil licks a stripe up Clint's cock, tongue swirling quickly around the head to lap up the glistening bead of precome at the tip.

Phil curls one hand around Clint's cock, the other stroking teasingly at his balls as he wraps his lips around the tip, playfully wriggling his tongue, and Clint's head thumps against the wall again. He glances up as he takes more of Clint in, and there is dark heat in Clint's half-lidded eyes and tiny beads of sweat at his hairline, and his mouth is half-open as he gasps for air, and Phil moans and closes his eyes before he comes just from the sight.

"Phil... fuck... so good," Clint groans, his fingers tightening in Phil's short hair until it's almost painful, the other hand curling around the nape of Phil's neck to cradle his head, and Phil grunts and takes him deeper. Clint cries out, hips jerking, startling Phil, and Clint gasps and tries to pull back, but Phil moves his hand from Clint's balls to his ass to hold him still.

"Sorry," Clint pants, and Phil just moans and takes him even deeper, hands coaxing him into movement. Clint whines through his teeth, hips thrusting helplessly as Phil holds him close and takes him all the way, loving the feel of Clint, heavy in his mouth, hands holding him tight, sweat-slick flesh sliding under Phil's fingertips.

Clint's hands are suddenly scrabbling at Phil's shoulders before gripping him tightly and pushing him back, and his cock slips out of Phil's mouth with an obscene pop, and Phil lets out a cry of genuine dismay.

"Clint?" he asks, his voice rough and fucked out, and Clint shudders at the sound, pulling Phil up by the shoulders, arms tightening around him, and they are chest to chest as Clint buries his face in Phil's neck. He bites down on the pulse fluttering in Phil's neck, and Phil jerks and yelps, hands spasming over Clint's ass.

"Fuck, Phil, I need you, need to touch you, need to get my hands on you right the fuck now," Clint grits out, and Phil swallows harshly, hips bucking helplessly against Clint's. Clint's cock is hard and wet, and the friction through Phil's shorts is unbelievable.

Clint backs him toward the bed, and Phil suddenly finds himself on his back and divested of his shorts with Clint's slick, hot flesh pressed against him from shoulder to hip, and he shudders, hands gripping at Clint's shoulders, and then Clint's mouth finds his, and his hands stroke over Clint's back, following the play of shifting flesh and flexing muscles, and he gasps into Clint's kiss.

His cock is sliding against Clint's, precome glistening against what's left of Phil's spit on Clint's cock, and the feeling is _incredible_ , but he needs more, his hips rutting into Clint's and he keens into Clint's mouth, jumping as Clint's teeth sink into his lower lip.

Clint pulls back out of the kiss and Phil tries to catch his breath, chest heaving, but the air clogs in his throat as Clint licks his own hand and then wraps it firmly around both of their cocks, and Phil chokes, his head falling back against the pillows, one hand fisting into the blankets as the other finds Clint's around their cocks and tightens over it, and they both groan at the increased friction.

"Fuck, Clint, please, more... ah, God, _yes!_ " Phil cries as Clint's hand moves faster, adding a wicked twist at the end of each stroke.

Phil's hips roll endlessly as he bucks into their hands and the friction is hot and perfect and almost too fucking much, and Clint is lapping at Phil's slick skin, the fingers of his other hand gripping Phil's hip hard enough to bruise, and Phil is so fucking close, and his hand clenches around Clint's.

"Oh, God, Clint -- "

"So fucking beautiful," Clint growls, and Phil moans, hips jerking. "You look so amazing, Phil, coming apart, flying to fucking pieces in my hands, do you know how long I've wanted this, how long I've wanted to see you like this, how much I want to see you, to hear you when you come? You gonna come for me soon, Phil?"

And Phil is coming and coming and coming, Clint's name spilling from his lips, and his come is warm and slick against their hands and his stomach and he whimpers at Clint's exquisitely tight grip on his sensitive flesh and Clint swears as he arches, body bowing, and he sinks his teeth into Phil's shoulder, hips bucking brutally into Phil's body as he comes.

He collapses half onto Phil as they both gasp for breath, and they are slick with sweat and sticky with come, and Phil wraps shaking arms around Clint and pants into the damp flesh of his neck.

"Fuck," Clint breathes, and when he tries to lever himself off of Phil on shaky arms, Phil tightens his grip and holds him still. Clint reaches behind him and fumbles for the blanket to cover them both, and they are going to be disgusting in the morning, and Phil doesn't care.

Phil wakes the next morning, squashed uncomfortably against the wall in the too-small bed, a muscled arm over his chest, a heavy leg tangled with his, and he can feel Clint's gaze on him. His lips curve into a smile before he even opens his eyes.

Clint is even more beautiful here, naked in his bed in the sunlight streaming in from the small window Phil's position with SHIELD affords him, his hair tousled and burnished gold, his eyes shining as he stares at Phil.

"Good morning," he says, and it is probably only Phil that could hear the uncertainty lurking underneath his confident words.

Phil brushes a kiss over the warm skin of Clint's shoulder. "Whatever those remarkable eyes are showing you, Clint, I promise you, you can believe it."

Clint's eyes gleam with happy surprise as he kisses Phil once more.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

SHIELD's security cameras are state of the art. There are no fuzzy black and white images, silent and staticky and unclear.

SHIELD's cameras are full color, high-definition, fully mic'ed, and crystal clear, the footage simultaneously stored on secure servers in several locations in case the cameras themselves are destroyed. 

Phil holds the tablet in trembling hands as the quinjet flies toward New York and Nick barks orders over the phone and the radio at the same time, and the footage plays on, set on repeat. He watches wordlessly, his face impassive as Clint pushes Director Fury aside, watches as he falls and slowly gets up, and Phil's shaking fingers touch the cold screen, pinching and zooming to watch Loki grab Clint's arm, holding it as easily as a child's, and he sees Clint's confusion and his pain.

"You have heart," Loki tells him, and Phil bites his tongue against the strangled scream that wants to emerge, because the truth of the words is perverse, obscene in Loki's mouth.

Phil jerks as the spear touches Clint's chest, his breath catches as the magic crawls through Clint, inside him, under his skin, and Phil squeezes his burning eyes shut, he can't watch as it takes Clint's eyes, but he doesn't need to see it to recall it, it is forever etched into his memory, the magic slithering into Clint's eyes, darkening them and then icing them over, stealing everything that makes him the man Phil loves.

Phil watches as the agent steps back and stands, holstering his weapon, and that is what he is, a compromised SHIELD agent, that is all he is. He is not Clint, he is not Barton, he is not Hawkeye, he is just a shell under Loki's control. _That is not Clint_ , Phil thinks desperately.

He firmly repeats these thoughts to himself as he watches the exchange of words between Loki and Nick, curls his fingertips against the tablet until they go white as he watches the compromised agent walk stiffly across the floor of the lab, his body taut, with none of the easy grace Clint has always possessed.

Phil's frantic thoughts stutter to a halt once again as the agent shoots Nick center mass in the vest and keeps going, because that is a miss, and this body that he knows so well never misses. The trained weapon SHIELD has made this body would have gone for a double tap to the head if he wanted the director dead, and at that range, there would have been no doubt. It means Clint is still there, he is alive and he is fighting, and Phil is terrified and relieved and horrified and full of hope and full of despair.

The body, the shell glances up at the camera as he walks and Phil's finger stabs the pause button.

Those ice-blue orbs are not Clint's eyes, and Phil breathes out in wordless gratitude. He thinks that if he had to see Clint's own eyes empty and emotionless, beautiful colors dulled and vacant, he might actually lose the last tenuous grip he has on his self-control and start screaming and never stop.

Instead, he takes a deep breath and resets the footage to where Clint slides down from his perch to meet with the director. He watches them walk and talk, confident despite the chaos around them, and he vows that he is going to find a way to get Clint back and then he is going to take Loki apart, even if it is the last thing he does in this life.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

It's dark when Phil swims back to consciousness once more. His periods of wakefulness are getting longer, but the pain is so bad even through the drugs that he's not sure if being awake for longer is good or bad.

The room is dimly lit, night-shift lighting, and Phil stares at the opposite wall. He is lying on his back in the hospital bed, the head of the bed slightly raised so he's not flat, cushions and wedges around and under him to keep the wound in his back from coming in contact with the bed. Pain licks hungrily at the wound, and he feels hazily like the spear is still lodged in him.

It is quiet, none of the sounds of a standard hospital floor or SHIELD medical filtering through the door. His room is private, and for all he knows, the wing is private -- he has no idea what arrangements Stark has made, he only knows he is grateful for them.

It is quiet, but he is not alone. The bed is practically a double -- Phil has no idea where Tony got a hospital bed this large, but again, he's thankful -- and he has a bodyguard dozing on the very edge of the bed. Phil's not quite sure how Clint hasn't fallen to the floor.

"Clint," he rasps, and the other man jumps, startled out of his doze.

"You should go home," Phil tells him. "Pretty sure visiting hours are over."

"Shh," Clint orders, even as he's lifting the little cup of water for Phil to sip. "Don't strain yourself."

"If you're not going home, then come here where I can reach you."

"No. I shouldn't have even stayed, but you were... restless."

Clint won't meet his eyes, his gaze focused on the cup he's holding.

Phil has a moment of panic that when he does look up, his eyes will be ice-blue and empty, and he ruthlessly shoves it down, but not before the steady beeping of his heart monitor picks up speed. Clint's head swivels toward the monitor and then back to Phil, and his eyes are wide and alarmed, but they are _Clint's_ , and Phil's eyes close in relief.

"I'm fine, I swear, just... come here," he whispers again. "Please."

Phil knows it is the need in his voice that gets Clint moving, because he will do whatever Phil wants, even as he needs to deny himself the comfort of Phil's touch. He puts down the cup and inches closer, his head bowed, his body curved away from Phil's, his shoulders and chest barely brushing against Phil's right arm as he presses his lips to Phil's shoulder.

Phil wishes futilely for the use of his arms, but his left is currently useless, and his right is trapped between Clint's body and his own. Instead, he grits his teeth against the pain and turns his head to bump his nose against Clint's forehead until the other man raises his head, inches away from Phil's.

His face is lined and weary, rough with a couple of days of stubble. His eyes are heavy and gray with guilt and grief, and Phil thinks it should worry him, but all he can feel is gratitude that he is here, he is alive, and Clint is beside him, and he wishes there were something he could say to make that clear to Clint, to help him through this, but everything he might say sounds trite and absurd.

Instead, he stretches just a little bit further, presses his dry, chapped lips to the heat of Clint's own, and he feels Clint's breath, a sob against his mouth. Clint bows his head again, his forehead against Phil's mouth, and Phil kisses his furrowed brow, and it feels like a benediction.

"I love you," he whispers, and Clint's head jerks, a tiny shake, an automatic negative, and Phil sighs. "I do," he affirms, because it's true even if Clint thinks he doesn't deserve it, won't ever deserve it again.

Clint's eyes are closed, the lashes long and damp against his cheeks, and Phil brushes a kiss over one closed eye and then the other.

The eyes that Clint is hiding from him are gray and stormy, and Phil knows better than to believe that that will change anytime soon, but Phil is alive, and he never expected to be, and he will not rest until he wakes up to see Clint smiling back at him once more through all the colors of the rainbow.

**END**


End file.
